It’s April 6 again, a day to celebrate and to mourn. My oldest daughter Maya died on this day twenty-eight years ago. As the Covid-19 pandemic rages around the globe, millions of us find our lives radically upended; we’re scared, and we’re grieving. For those of us who’ve experienced the death of a child – or anyone mourning a loved one – this new, uncertain reality with all its actual and anticipated losses can reignite grief.

Maya would have turned 48 this year – she’d be well into midlife – and I can only speculate how she’d deal with this crisis. She was a whirlwind of energy. Her zest for life might have made the confinement of “shelter in place” challenging. But she was also smart and resilient, so I like to think she’d have found creative ways of navigating.

One of the great privileges of motherhood is knowing someone for a lifetime. I feel so lucky to have watched Maya grow, to hear her first words, and watch her first steps. I can still see her, a dancing sprite, blond hair glistening in the sun, splashing in the Yuba River on a glorious summer afternoon. Or, her later self, brash and witty, making jokes at my expense. No one could make me laugh like Maya could – and no one did a better job of pushing my buttons. Our conflicts were fierce, emblematic battles.

Thankfully, we made peace before she left for college. Raising a high-spirited teenager bent on rebellion is not for the faint of heart. I’m so grateful she lived long enough to show herself – and me – where her talents as an actress might take her. In Swimming with Maya, I write about those final months of her life when she aced her audition at UCLA and earned a place in their theater arts program as a community college transfer student.

Maya as a teen

Maya’s accident – a fall from a horse that left her in an irreversible coma – came while she was home on spring break. She left this earth at the peak of her beauty and energy when she was only 19. Her sudden death was like a lightning strike.

During life under quarantine I have days of struggle when frustration and depression cloud my appreciation for life even though I know how quickly and randomly it can end. I’d like to say that I no longer sweat the small stuff, but these days I can get thrown off course by our dwindling supply of disinfectant wipes or the fact that we are being told to wear masks, but none are available. For now, we’re making do with bandannas! Maya would have poked fun at me for looking like Calamity Jane on a cattle drive as I wander the aisles looking for broccoli.

By cosmic coincidence, April is also National Donate Life month, and each year on this day I think about the recipients of Maya’s gift. My dear friend Patti Frame received my daughter’s liver on this day in 1992, and her life was saved after a struggle with Wilson’s disease, a life-threatening condition. Patti and I became friends after she reached out to me to say thank you two years after Maya died – we bonded in one heartfelt phone call.

Others received the gift of sight, or a new heart, or a new kidney. And many more people received bone grafts and skin tissue. They and their families celebrate the miracle of organ donation and transplantation on April 6 each year.

At Maya’s memorial service, my beloved spiritual mentor Rev. Margaret Stortz said this: “Let’s make Maya’s short life have as much impact as someone who lived into their eighties.”  We rose to our feet in the sanctuary of the Oakland Center for Spiritual Living and gave Maya a standing ovation. So, to Maya’s friends and family, to her classmates, to those who received her “Gift of Life,” to everyone who was touched by her, let’s make this a day to remember and give thanks, even in the midst of a pandemic.

I can’t visit Oakmont Memorial Park today where Maya is buried under a giant oak tree. It’s raining, and honestly, I don’t have the heart to go this year. Tonight, I’ll light a candle in remembrance of my daughter, and join with all those in Italy who light candles in honor of Covid-19 victims. The amount of death is staggering. With so much uncertainty and sadness, it’s hard to know how to mourn this year. At the same time, I’m linking arms with grieving families around the world, and perhaps that is comfort enough.